Black Hawk
by thelairofthependragon
Summary: Clint Barton struggles with the aftereffects of being enslaved by the Tesseract, and Natasha Romanoff seeks to help him.


It came again; the deep-throated scream from the apartment above. Martha growled; she felt bad for the guy and all, but people had to sleep around here. She rolled over to face the window, pressing a pillow over her ears. A dark figure appeared silhouetted against the blinds. Martha gasped as the lithe figure of a woman crawled up the fire escape. This neighborhood got worse every year.

"Barton?" He could barely make out the flaming red of her hair in the dark, but her deep, breathy voice was unmistakable. She flipped on a light, causing him to blink. He was soaked in sweat, having been woken from a dream he could no longer remember by his own shout. Pizza-Dog growled softly from the bottom of the bed.

He blinked at her, reaching out to soothe Pizza-Dog. Her hair was red. The exact opposite of blue. "Y'know, Tasha, it's a really good thing you don't have blue hair." He cursed the words the minute they escaped from his mouth. She stared at him like he'd lost his mind.

Way to play it cool, Barton.

"Someone in the building was complaining about 'that war vet that's always screaming upstairs.'" He winced at the no-nonsense tone of her voice.

"Spying on me?" He demanded. "Am I on SHIELD's blacklist now?" She had the remarkable ability to glare without moving her face at all, he reflected. He sighed and climbed out of bed, stretching with exaggerated motions. She rolled her eyes. "Admit it. You're impressed," he said smugly, pulling his shirt on with unnecessary slowness.

"I've slept with a lot of people, Barton. And some, not many, but some were far more impressive." She bestowed a patronizing smile on him.

Ouch.

"Damn." He hung his head for a moment before drilling her with a cheeky grin. "Was it Steve?" He said it just to see the look of disgust that contorted her pretty face. He widened his eyes in pretended shock. "Don't tell me he's not impressive enough. Oh, God, was it Thor?"

"Oh my God, Clint." She looked like she might vomit. If he had to pick one thing that he loved about her, it would have to be the way she was so completely disgusted by the thought of sleeping with someone she considered a good friend. It had always been a subject of great interest to him that, when people insinuated that she was sleeping with _him_, she adopted a carefully blank expression.

If that wasn't love, he didn't know what was.

"Clint," she said, bringing him back to the moment. "You look absolutely awful." It was probably true, he realized. Training all day, most of the night, and sleeping for about five hours…well, they weren't a good look. Even on his oh-so-handsome features.

Pizza-Dog's growl became marginally louder as she crossed the room to examine his face.

"Shh, mutt," Barton told the dog in a stage whisper. "If you're quiet, she'll forget you're here and there'll be some Hawk on Spider action."

"Barton!" she slaps him a little less than gently. "Knock it off!" She glared at him for real this time, brows swooping down toward her nose, which, he mused, was probably the most adorable nose he'd ever seen. "What is going on?" Her lips always thinned when she was angry. He forced his eyes to move back up to her eyes.

"There's an attractive Russian…in a skintight suit…in my room…in the middle of the night?" he guessed with a smirk. She made a disgusted noise and stalked to the window, red curls bouncing with every step.

"You could stay the night!" he called after her. His only reply was her lone middle finger.

Pizza-Dog fell quiet.

There was nothing Natasha Romanoff loved more than a challenge, and Clint had just presented her with the perfect one. She'd seen for herself the sweat soaked shirt, the dark circles beneath his eyes. And his hair looked like it hadn't been cut in ages! Although that…that was actually normal.

Since Clint owned the building, she helped herself to the apartment above his. She would have preferred the suite on either side or the one across the hall, but they were occupied, so upstairs it was. After all, she thought, glancing over at the fire escape, that was probably fast-

Clint Barton sat just outside her window, watching her try to hang a dartboard, an unreadable expression on his face. The minute she looked over, that usual smart-ass grin spread across his face, temporarily lightening the blue under his eyes.

"I realize you're obsessed with me," he said, his voice muffled by the glass, "but this really takes the cake, Tasha." His tone was light, his demeanor relaxed, but she didn't make the mistake of missing the steely glint in his eyes.

She opened the window with a sigh. "Barton," she began reasonably.

"You don't need to worry about me, Agent Romanoff," he said firmly. There was an unfamiliar iciness in his tone, and she stared at him. Never in all their years together had he called her 'Agent Romanoff.'

His eyebrows shot upward. "Really? That's all I have to do to make you be quiet? Call you 'Agent?'"

"There's no need to be rude," she said frostily.

The silence stretched between them until Clint finally turned and, without another word, climbed back down the fire escape. Natasha stared after him, wondering exactly when she had lost the ability to tell what he was thinking.

Not that anybody _really_ knew what Barton was thinking.

Not that anybody really _wanted_ to know.

But always before, she'd had some idea…after all, it was her job to read people. Most people were an open book.

She returned to the dartboard, hammering with unnecessary vengeance. Well, she would just wait him out. That was what she was trained for, and if that damned Clint Barton thought he could outlast her, well, he had another thing coming.

She lounged in the stairwell until she heard his distinctive half jog leaving the building. When she was sure he was gone, she sprinted back to her room and retrieved a small black bag from her suitcase before slipping down the fire escape and in his window. Criminal proof window locks were child's play for her.

The minute she put a foot through the window, a low growl reminded her that Clint no longer lived alone. She lowered herself slowly into the room. The dog sat on the ground near the end of the bed, hackles raised and teeth bared. However, there was something about his posture that seemed…off.

His ears, she realized. They weren't pricked forward. They were tilted back, and he cringed backward, as if he expected to be hit. Something twanged in her chest; she'd seen that brow-beaten look on two many people and animals. She never wanted to see it again.

She dropped to her knees and held one hand out to the dog. He moved away with a bark, regarding her with suspicious brown eyes. He looked like some sort of Labrador/Golden Retriever mix. Ever so slowly, he leaned toward her. She remained motionless, breathing as quietly as possible so as not to startle him. Eventually, the mutt managed a tentative lick, and she took the invitation, reaching back to scratch his ears. Slowly, his tail began to wag, thumping against the floor and the leg of the bed.

"There's a good boy," she smiled sadly at him. He inched toward her, tongue beginning to loll. It wasn't long before he was leaning into her, gazing up in adoration. "What's your name?" she asked. A worn blue collar hung around his neck, marked with Clint's distinctive chicken-scratch. She twisted it around to read it.

_Pizza-Dog, c/o Clint Barton c/o the Avengers_.

"I wasn't aware that the Avengers were in charge of a dog," she told the dog. "And Pizza-Dog? _Really,_ Clint?" She rolled her eyes and stood. Pizza-Dog whined softly. "I've got work to do," she told him sternly. He started to whine again. "None of that," she held up a finger. He fell silent. "Good boy." If dogs could smile, this one was. "Now, lets get these cameras set."

She scattered cameras and recording equipment like confetti. Clint would notice them right away, so she hoped that, by overwhelming him with sheer numbers, she would get an extra day of surveillance. She'd been swiping SHEILD surveillance equipment for years. She suspected that Coulson knew what she was up to, but the standing agreement between them was don't ask, don't tell.

She surveyed her work and figured Clint would leave them a day before finding something to disable them remotely.

Pizza-Dog followed her around, and she had to admit that she kind of enjoyed having him around. He whined softly as she began to climb out onto the fire escape.

"I'll be back," she promised, scratching his ears one last time.

The web was set. Now, it was time to wait.

Clint sighed as he entered the apartment. Natasha hadn't even _tried_ to be stealthy. The excessive cameras were her way of saying, "Well, screw you too, Clint." Pizza-Dog greeted him with enthusiastic yelps.

"Tasha, this is really…" he trailed off. Really what? Rude? Invasive? Unnecessary? Oddly sweet?

He looked straight at a camera and raised an eyebrow. "If you wanted to see me undress, you could have just asked," he said in his best seductive voice. He grabbed the bottom of his shirt and began pulling it upward. He was rewarded with an angry shout of, "Dammit, Clint!"

"I know." He looked down at his abdomen. "I'm pretty great."

"You're worse than Tony." His acute observational skills told him, based on the way he could only see her head and the fact that it was upside down, that she was hanging down the fire escape.

"Pink is a good look on you," he told her. "You should hang upsidedown more often." She scowled at him as she climbed through the window.

"Clint, I'm trying to help you," she implored.

He stiffened. She couldn't help him. No one could. Especially not her. Not after what he'd done.

"Unless you're here for some of this," he gestured to himself. "There's absolutely no reason for you to be here."

He knew, by the look on her face that she wasn't in the least bit deterred. Common sense and some weaker part of him told him to yield; she always got her way. But there was a reason she called him a –

"Stubborn bastard." She looked really hot when she was angry, he reflected. Arms crossed, hips cocked, eyebrows drawn low over gray eyes. He'd wondered many times how a natural ginger could have such nice eyebrows.

And legs. Long, muscled legs on display thanks to those great jean shorts that were just barely visible beneath…

"Is that my Phil Coulson shirt?" he demanded. She looked down and opened her mouth to reply. He crossed the room in three strides, leaning down to smell the fabric. That _was_ his laundry detergent. "It is! That is _my_ shirt!" He glared at her. "You can't just take people's stuff, Natasha," he told her. "Especially their Phil Coulson shirts." He crossed his arms. "Not unless you sleep with them first."

As ever, she simply rolled her eyes. Someday, he promised himself, he would get under her skin. But for now, he needed her to go away.

"Unless you're staying here tonight, you need to leave, because I'm going to sleep." He fell backwards onto the bed, making the frame squeak loudly. Pizza-Dog had to leap off to make room for him. She only hesitated for a minute before slipping out the window. "Shirt stealer!" he called after her. Pizza-Dog crawled back onto the bed and licked his face. "Stop," he said quietly.

Having Natasha around was like having a fire in your living room. It was dangerous but oddly comforting. And when it was gone, it wasn't so much that you were cold as that you were no longer warm. Was it better, he wondered, to freeze, or to be burned up?

Enough with the fire metaphors, Barton.

His eyes were already drooping. The months of poor sleep were catching up with him. He was losing his edge. Or maybe it was just Natasha wearing him out with her and her red hair and her gray eyes and her long legs and her cameras and –

Her cameras. He sat bolt upright. He'd almost forgotten about them, and why he'd run down to SHEILD headquarters. With a smirk, he pulled a small device from his pocket. Pressing the top, it beeped once, and the room was filled with little popping sounds. There was an angry squawk from upstairs.

He settled back down with a satisfied smile.


End file.
